Callander Square Read online

  “Inspector Pitt.”

  “Inspector Pitt,” she repeated. “I am Christina Balantyne; but I suppose you knew that. What are you asking questions about? Has there been a crime?”

  Pitt was saved from having to compose an answer at once civil and uncommunicative by the breakfast room door opening and a man coming out whom Pitt assumed to be General Balantyne. He was tall, nearly as tall as Pitt himself, but tighter knit, of stiffer bearing. His face was smooth-boned, lean, and aquiline. It was a striking head; too arrogant to be handsome, too strong of jaw and teeth.

  “Christina!” he said sharply.

  She turned.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “The policeman’s business with the servants can hardly be of interest to you. Have you no letters to write, or sewing to do?” The question was academic; it was a dismissal. She accepted it with a straight back and stiff lip.

  Pitt hid a smile and bowed his head fractionally.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said to the general after she had gone. “I was unsure how to answer her without distressing her with unpleasant facts.” It was something less than the truth, but it served well for the moment.

  The general grunted.

  “Have you finished?”

  “Yes, sir. I was looking for the butler to say so.”

  “Discover anything?” the general looked at him with quick, intelligent eyes.

  “Not yet, but I have only just begun. Who lives next door?” He gestured toward the south side of the square.

  “Reggie Southeron next to us,” the general replied. “Then young Bolsover at the end on this side. Garson Campbell on the other; Leatitia Doran opposite Southeron; opposite us on the far side is vacant at the moment. Has been for a couple of years. Sir Robert Carlton on the far side, and an elderly fellow called Housmann, a complete recluse. Has no women in the house, hates them; all male staff.”

  “Thank you, sir, most helpful. I’ll try Mr. Southeron next.”

  Balantyne took a sharp breath, then let it out. Pitt waited, but he did not add anything.

  The Southeron house was busier—he heard the light laughter of children even before he had reached for the bell-pull. It was opened by one of the handsomest parlormaids he had ever seen.

  “Yes, sir?” she said with perfect formality.

  “Good morning, I am Inspector Pitt from the police; may I speak to either Mr. or Mrs. Southeron?”

  She stepped back.

  “If you would like to come in, sir, I’ll inquire if they will see you.”

  He followed her into the hall, beautifully furnished, but less Spartan than the Balantynes’. There were baubles on the hangings, richly upholstered chairs, and even a doll sitting carelessly on a small side table. He watched the straight back of the parlormaid, and the becoming little twitch of her skirt as she walked. He smiled to himself; then hoped with a sudden acute stab of pity that she was not the one, that it was not the result of her seduction, her brief yielding to passion, buried out there under the trees.

  She showed him into the morning room and left him. He heard a scampering of feet on the stairs—a tweeny maid, or a child of the house? There was probably little difference in age; some girls began their life in service at no more than eleven or twelve.

  The door burst open and a thin, blue-eyed little face looked in. Her total composure proclaimed her immediately as a daughter of the house. Her hair was tied up in ringlets and her skin was scrubbed clean.

  “Good morning,” Pitt said solemnly.

  “Good morning,” she replied, letting the door swing open a little farther, her eyes still fixed on his face.

  “You have a very elegant house,” he said to her with courtesy, as if she had been an adult, and the house hers. “Are you the mistress?”

  She giggled, then straightened her face with quick recollection of her position.

  “No, I’m Chastity Southeron. I live here, since my Mama and Papa died. Papa was Uncle Reggie’s brother. Who are you?”

  “My name is Thomas Pitt, I’m an inspector of police.”

  She let out her breath in a long sigh.

  “Has somebody stolen something?”

  “Not as far as I know. Have you lost something?”

  “No. But you can question me,” she came into the room. “I might be able to tell you something.” It was an offer.

  He smiled.

  “I’m sure you could tell me a great deal that is interesting, but I don’t know what questions to ask, yet.”

  “Oh.” She made as if to sit down, but the door opened again and Reginald Southeron came in. He was a wide man, fleshy-faced and comfortable.

  “Chastity?” he said with good-humored exasperation. “Jemima will be looking for you. You should be at your lessons. Go upstairs this moment.”

  “Jemima is my governess,” Chastity explained to Pitt. “I have to do lessons. Are you coming back?”

  “Chastity!” Southeron repeated.

  She dropped a tiny curtsey to Pitt and fled upstairs.

  Southeron’s attitude stiffened slightly, but the good humor did not leave him.

  “Mary Ann says you are from the police.” He sounded faintly disbelieving. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir.” Again there was no point in circumlocution, and Pitt explained his visit as simply as he could.

  “Oh dear,” Reggie Southeron sat down quickly, his rather florid face paling. “What an—a—” he changed his mind and began again. “What a shocking affair,” he said with more composure. “How very distressing. I assure you I know nothing that could be of help to you.”

  “Naturally,” Pitt agreed hypocritically. He looked at the man’s wide mouth, sensuous jowls, and soft, well-manicured hands. No doubt he knew nothing of the bodies in the square, but if he knew nothing of their conception it might be more by good fortune than intent. “But I would like your permission to interview your staff,” he asked.

  “My staff?” The momentary discomposure returned.

  “Belowstairs gossip is invaluable,” Pitt said easily. “Even those who are in no way involved may know something, a word here or there.”

  “Of course. Yes, yes, I suppose so. Well, if you must. But I should be obliged if you would not upset them more than is absolutely necessary; so difficult to get good staff these days. I’m sure you understand—no—no—of course not—you wouldn’t.” He was oblivious of patronage. “Very well. I suppose it is unavoidable. I’ll get my butler to see to it.” He hauled himself to his feet and went out without saying anything further.

  Pitt spoke to all the staff one by one, informed the butler, and took his leave. It had occupied the best part of the morning and it was already time for lunch. In the afternoon he returned to the square. It was two o’clock when he knocked at the third door, which, according to General Balantyne, should be that of Dr. and Mrs. Frederick Bolsover. During lunch he had seen Stillwell again, and asked him if he knew of Bolsover professionally.

  “Hardly in my category,” Stillwell had pulled a face. “Probably makes more in a month than I do in a year. Must do, to live in Callander Square. Society doctor, comforting a lot of hypochondriac ladies who have nothing more interesting to do than contemplate their health. Nice practice, if you have the patience, and the manners, and from what I hear Bolsover has. Good family, good start, all the right connections.”

  “Good doctor?” Pitt had asked.

  “No idea.” Stillwell’s eyebrows had gone up. “Does it matter?”

  “Not in the least, I should think.”

  The Bolsovers’ door was opened by a somewhat surprised parlormaid, small and pert, but in her own way almost as attractive as the last one. Of course, parlormaids were chosen for their looks. This one regarded Pitt with some dismay. He was not the sort of person admitted to the front door, and this was not the time of day for callers; he was at least an hour to an hour and a half early, and it was usually ladies who called for the afternoon social ritual.

  “Yes, sir?”
she said after a moment.

  “Good afternoon. May I speak with Mrs. Bolsover, if she is at home. My name is Pitt; I am from the police.”

  “The police!”

  “If I may?” He moved to step inside and she retreated nervously.

  “Mrs. Bolsover is expecting callers,” the maid said quickly. “I don’t think—”

  ”It’s important,” Pitt insisted. “Please ask her.”

  The girl hesitated; he knew she was concerned in case he was still there when the lady callers arrived, thus embarrassing her mistress. After all, respectable people did not have the police in the house at all, let alone at the front door.

  “The sooner you ask her, the more quickly I shall be able to finish my business,” Pitt pointed out persuasively.

  She saw his argument and scurried off to comply; anything to get him off the doorstep.

  Sophie Bolsover was a pretty woman, not unlike her own parlormaid, had the girl been dieted a little, dressed in silk, and her hair curled and coiffed.

  “Good afternoon,” she said quickly. “Polly says you are from the police.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He respected her social embarrassment and explained his business as rapidly as possible, then asked her permission to speak to her servants as he had done in the other houses. It was granted hastily and he was almost physically bundled into the housekeeper’s parlor to conduct his inquiries safely out of sight. He began with the parlormaid Polly, to leave her free for her afternoon duties as soon as the first caller should arrive.

  He learned nothing but names and faces; he would store them all in his mind, consider them, rule out the impossibilities. Perhaps the sheer tension, the presence of the police in the house, would frighten someone into indiscretions, mistakes. Or perhaps they would never find out what sordid affair, or private tragedy of love and deceit, lay behind the small deaths.

  The Campbells and the Dorans were, as General Balantyne had said, not in residence at the moment. He passed the vacant house, ascertained that the reclusive Housmann did indeed employ only menservants, and it was after four o’clock when he knocked at the last door—that of Sir Robert and Lady Carlton.

  It was opened by a startled parlormaid.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Inspector Pitt, from the police.” He knew he was intruding, as it was the most inconvenient of all times to call, the time when the rigid etiquette of the social hierarchy was observed to the letter, the intricacies of rank, whether one called to visit, or merely left a card, whether calls were acknowledged, returned, who spoke to whom, and on what terms. To have the police at such a time was unforgettable. He endeavored to make his presence as inoffensive as possible. They could not have been taken by surprise. Backdoor gossip would long ago have reached them carrying his purpose, whom he had seen, what had been asked, probably even a minute description of him and an acute assessment of his precise social status.

  The parlormaid took a deep breath.

  “You had better come in,” she stepped back, surveying him with anxiety and disapproval, as if he might have brought crime in with him like a disease. “Come through to the back, we’ll find a place for you. The mistress can’t see you, of course. She has callers. Lady Townshend,” she added with pride. Pitt was ignorant of Lady Townshend’s importance, but he endeavored to look suitably impressed. The parlormaid saw his expression and was mollified. “I’ll get Mr. Johnson,” she added. “He’s the butler.”

  “Thank you.” Pitt sat down where she pointed and she swept out.

  At home Charlotte Pitt had attended to the ordering of her house, which took her no more than an hour, then had immediately dispatched her single housemaid to purchase a daily newspaper so that she might discover what it was that Pitt would not tell her. Previous to her marriage she had been forbidden by her father to read such things. Like most other men of breeding he believed them vulgar and totally unsuitable for women. After all, they carried little else but crime and scandal, and such political notions as were undesirable for the consideration of women, as well, of course, as intellectually beyond them. Charlotte had had to indulge her interest by bribery of the butler or with the connivance of her brother-in-law, Dominic Corde. She smiled now to think how she had loved Dominic in those days, when Sarah was still alive. The smile vanished. Sarah’s death still hurt, and the passion for Dominic had long ago cooled to friendship. She had been shocked and dismayed to discover she was in love with this awkward and impertinent policeman who had told her so disturbingly of a world she had never previously acknowledged, a world of petty crime and desperate, grinding poverty. Her own blind comfort had become offensive to her, her judgments had changed.

  Of course her parents had been shaken when she had informed them she intended to marry a policeman, but they had accepted it with as good a grace as possible. After all, she was something of a liability on the marriage market, with her unacceptable frankness. She was handsome enough, in fact Pitt thought her beautiful, but she had not sufficient money to overcome her waywardness and her undisciplined tongue, devastating disadvantages in the eyes of any gentleman of her own station. Her grandmother had given up all hope and was dismally convinced poor Charlotte was destined to become an old maid. And there was the compensation of Emily having married a lord! And with the social stigma of a murder in the house, the Ellisons were no longer a family with whom one chose willingly to contract an alliance!

  Pitt was a great deal firmer with Charlotte than she had expected; indeed, in spite of his being deeply and unashamedly in love with her, he was quite as insufferably bossy as all the other men she knew. She was amazed, to begin with, and even fought him a little, but in her heart she was quite glad of it. She had barely dared to admit it to herself, but she had been a little afraid that because of his devotion to her, and their previous relative social positions, he might have let her ride over him, bend his will to hers. She was secretly delighted to discover he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. Of course she had cried, and made an exhibition of both temper and hurt in their first quarrel. But she had gone to sleep with singing happiness inside her when he had come to her gently, taking her in his arms, but utterly and finally refusing to allow her her own way.

  But he had never objected to her reading the newspapers, and as soon as the maid returned with the copy of today’s she scrambled through it, fingers flying to find some reference to a crime in Callander Square. She did not find it the first time and had to search more diligently before she discovered a small piece, barely two inches long, stating simply that two bodies of babies had been found in the gardens, and a domestic tragedy among the maidservants was suspected.

  She knew immediately why Pitt had concealed it from her. She herself was newly expecting their first child. The thought of some servant girl, alone, desperate not to lose her livelihood, deserted by a lover—the whole thing was appalling. She felt cold at the imagining of it. Yet when she put the paper down she was already determined not to drive it from her mind. Perhaps she would be able to help the girl, if she were thrown out. It was a possibility: not herself, of course, she had no position to offer. But Emily! Emily was rich—and she had a deep suspicion she was also just a little bored. It was two years since her marriage also, and she had by now met all George Ashworth’s friends of any importance; she had been seen well dressed in all the fashionable places. Perhaps this would arouse her. Charlotte decided on the spot. This afternoon she would call upon Emily; early, so as not to collide with her more socially elite callers, and before Emily herself might be out.

  Duly at two o’clock she presented herself at the front door of Emily’s London house in Tavistock Square.

  The parlormaid knew her and admitted her without asking explanation. She was shown into the withdrawing room where there was a fire lit already and barely a moment later Emily herself came in. She was already dressed for her afternoon visiting; she looked magnificent in pale apple green silk with dark brown velvet ribbons. It must have cost more than Char
lotte would have spent on clothes in half a year. Her face was alight with pleasure. She kissed her sister delicately, but with genuine warmth.

  “Goodness, if you’re going to take up calling, Charlotte, I shall have to teach you what time to begin! It is not done to arrive before three at the very, very earliest. Ladies of rank, of course, later still.”

  “I haven’t come calling,” Charlotte said quickly. “I wouldn’t think of it. I came to ask your help, if you can give it; and of course you are interested.”

  Emily’s honey-colored eyebrows rose, but her eyes were bright.

  “In what? Not a charity, please!”

  Charlotte knew her sister too well to have come on such an errand.

  “Of course not,” she said sharply. “A crime—”

  “Charlotte!”

  “Not to commit, goose; to help, when it is solved.”

  Even Emily’s new sophistication could not hide her excitement.

  “Can’t we solve it? Can’t we help? If we—”

  “It’s not a nice crime, Emily, not a robbery or something clean,” Charlotte said hastily.

  “Well, what is it?” Emily did not look disconcerted. Charlotte had forgotten how composed she was, how easily she adapted to the unpleasantnesses of life. Indeed, from the day she had decided she would marry Lord George Ashworth, she had accepted frankly that he had faults and that she might never eradicate more than a few of them, but she made her decision and settled for the bargain as it was. She had never complained. Although in truth Charlotte did not know if she had any cause.

  “Goodness, Charlotte,” Emily prodded. “Is it so dreadful you cannot put tongue to it? I never before knew you at a loss for words.”

  “No. No, it is merely very sad. Two babies’ bodies were dug up in the garden in the center of Callander Square.”

  Surprisingly, Emily was shaken.

  “Babies?”

  “Yes.”

  “But who would want to kill a baby? It’s insane.”

  “A servant girl who was unmarried, of course.”

  Emily frowned.

  “And you want to find out who it was? Why?”